


Poultice

by youaremarvelous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 19:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9400085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremarvelous/pseuds/youaremarvelous
Summary: Yuuri had every reason in the world to be happy but he wasn’t, and it was the worst personal failure he could fathom.





	

**Author's Note:**

> please be safe and do not read if you are triggered by descriptions of binging and purging

Yuuri was so endlessly grateful to be living with Viktor in St. Petersburg.

 

He was.

 

But the adjustment hadn’t been an easy one.

 

His reluctance was hard to confront because this life was everything he could’ve ever wanted.  Every morning he woke up safe and warm, burrowed against Viktor’s goose pimpled chest, tangled in silken sheets and sprawling limbs. Yuuri’s heart spread into every corner of the room in those quiet moments—his feelings of contentment mounting out of proportion to his dimensions.  

 

Still, the anxiety would find its way in. It would creep up on him at inopportune times in the tightening of his chest or the itching in his fingertips—an unwanted and irritating presence, like a pebble in his shoe he couldn’t shake out.

 

It was hard to explain it to Viktor. That he wasn’t unhappy, that Viktor wasn’t doing anything wrong. That he loves him, but sometimes he can’t have him around.

 

Yuuri’s old routine of sleeping and binge eating and lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling and contemplating his failure may not have been healthy, but it was comforting in its familiarity. Self-loathing was a reliable bedfellow and it didn’t leave room for intruders.

 

For a while, it had been hard to find the time to hate himself between the workouts and research and practice. But his performance as a healthy person had an expiration date. Yuuri knew it from the beginning, but he hadn’t managed to talk himself out of moving in with Viktor—he hadn’t stopped himself from imagining a future with him. Somehow he had hoped his love for the man would be enough. It felt like the most crushing of personal failures when he realized it not to be true.

 

Yuuri hadn’t resorted to his bad habits often at all while under Viktor’s tutelage in Hasetsu. Even so, in his home he had a separate bedroom and bath. He never stopped wrestling his urges—never stopped swallowing down desperate heartbeats on the days when his failures loomed so close—but the option was there and it comforted him.

 

Now Yuuri stared at his fogged up reflection and sighed. He glanced to the door—bottom lip clenched between his teeth—before turning to the side and running a critical hand over his softening stomach. He scraped his nails across the accordion stretchmarks on his hips, a grimace curling in the corner of his mouth. A silent burp burned up his throat—the acidic breath coating his teeth and throat with the taste of bile.

 

“Yuuri?” A couple gentle taps sounded at the door and Yuuri scrambled back into his shirt. “Breakfast in ten, okay?”

 

“O-okay, Viktor.” Yuuri’s voice came out raspy. He cleared his throat and spit into the sink.

 

He was a mess.

 

He was a mess and Viktor was bound to find out.

 

Yuuri really didn’t feel like eating that day. He ate way too much yesterday. He wished he could tell Viktor as much, that he hadn’t gone to physio like he told Viktor when his practice had ended. That instead, he’d gone to the convenience store—the one a few blocks down from their flat so no one would know him—and had bought chocolate and pastries and diet soda to chase it all down with.

 

He wished he could tell Viktor that he’d stuffed all the food in his backpack for fear of running into someone they know and being found out. That he’d then raced back to the apartment, locked himself in the bathroom, and eaten it all at lightning speed—barely tasting the food as he shoved it in his mouth, leaning against the door, listening intently to any indication of Viktor’s early return.

 

He had purged in the end, of course, but it hadn’t felt like enough. The cookies he bought had clumped together despite the soda and were hard to get up. He would normally drink some water and try again, but he had to dispose of the evidence and he was running out of time.

 

A headache was building behind his eyes by the time he’d returned from the apartment trash bin. His skin felt hot and stretched uncomfortably thin—his waistband impressing red indentions into his bloated stomach. He felt miserable, but the guilt was the worst. It settled in slowly, replacing the high of the binge with a sinking, bone-deep despair.

 

He was going to gain weight. His performance in practice would suffer tomorrow.

 

He had lied to Viktor. _Again_.

 

His stomach gurgled angry and insistent that night, telling tale of the awful injustices it had suffered. The sound was obnoxiously loud in the quiet of their bedroom. Viktor had laughed at it—had teased him.

 

Yuuri just wanted to cry.

 

So he’d purged again that morning. It wouldn’t rid him of any calories, of course. He knew that, but it wasn’t really about the calories at that point. These days it had become something of a habit: dragging himself from the bed before Viktor woke up, locking the bathroom door, and vomiting in the shower. He did it whether he felt he’d overeaten or not, simply because he didn’t know when the next opportunity may arise. Maybe Viktor would wake up unexpectedly early the next day, maybe he’d insist they take a shower together.

 

Yuuri had no control in this apartment. This was the one thing that was his and his alone. It was his shelter—his sole form of protection.

 

+

 

(‘ _Protection from what_?’ he asked himself the next day during practice, mid rotation. He hit the ground hard, knocking the air from his lungs.

 

He never was able to come up with an answer.)

 

+

 

A month went by like this and his weight didn’t really change.

 

His performance took a hit, though. He felt sluggish most days, his thoughts fluttering and aloof like loose leaf in the wind. There was a rock in his stomach that he couldn’t move. He hadn’t managed to have a bowel movement in three days.

 

Viktor couldn’t figure out the cause of Yuuri’s slump. He blamed it on jet lag at first, or maybe—ideally—just the onset of complacency born from domestic bliss. Yuuri wasn’t the type, though. Viktor knew it deep down, even though they hadn’t yet managed to really talk about their feelings. Yuuri loved him but he loved skating, too. Their relationship ran parallel but removed from Yuuri’s career. Viktor was not his consolation prize. Yuuri desperately wanted a gold medal around his neck even if he was often still too insecure to voice it.   

 

So, Viktor wondered: what was the problem, then?

 

+

 

One afternoon during a particularly awful purge that had him heaving so hard he tasted copper, Yuuri asked himself, ‘ _why?_ ’

 

He was happy. At least, he thought he was.

 

He leaned forward and vomited forcefully into the toilet. Water splashed into his face and he reared back, humiliated. He was a disgrace—the butt of some kind of cosmic joke.   

 

He was happy aside from the binging, but the thought of stopping made him want to cry.

 

+

 

Weirdly, it was Yurio who started to catch on first.  

 

Yuuri had reached a new low. He had lied to Viktor that morning—told him he was sick and needed a day off. Viktor hadn’t argued because Yuuri looked the part—he was pale and shivering with bloodshot eyes and under eye bags as dark as bruises.

 

He wasn’t sick, though.

 

At least, not physically.

 

What he _was_ , was coming off of an awful binge session that had left him feeling ugly and disgusting and less than nothing. He couldn’t face himself—couldn’t even face the reflection of himself in others. He had cried that morning because it was impossible not to—the emotions bubbling up like bile—and Viktor had hovered awkwardly, rubbing stilted circles into his back, asking if he wanted him to call a doctor.

 

A doctor couldn’t fix this. Yuuri had shattered into pieces and pushed himself back together too many times. He was weak around the edges—his composition wholly compromised. He wondered when it would be enough—when it wouldn’t be worth trying to fix himself, anymore.

 

When Viktor had finally left—reluctantly and only after loading Yuuri down with Gatorade and saltines and a fully charged phone—Yuuri had stumbled to the bathroom to rid himself of everything. He hovered over the toilet, choking back the hurricane in his lungs, wishing he didn’t have to do this.

 

He was already crying when he reached for his toothbrush.

 

It was one of those days when his stomach didn’t want to budge. His throat ached from trying, his back pulsing in pain from standing hunched over the bowl. ‘ _Probably because there’s nothing to get rid of_ ,’ he told himself. ‘ _Probably because you’re dehydrated and your body needs everything it has_.’

 

Logic had no place here. If it did, he wouldn’t be stooped over a toilet in his apartment, salty tears and snot dripping down his chin. When this had all started years ago in Detroit, Yuuri had told himself he would stop as soon as he was thin. Then it was as soon as he made it to the GPF. Then as soon as he medaled in it. The goal line kept getting pushed back and back until Yuuri was forced to confront the fact that he _couldn’t_ stop or maybe didn’t want to.

 

He had every reason in the world to be happy but he wasn’t, and it was the worst failure he could fathom—bombed performance at the Sochi GPF included.

 

He was contemplating all of this, choking his way around a pathetic mouthful of bright yellow bile, when the front door opened with a bang.

 

“Katsudon,” a voice that was unmistakably Yurio’s called from the living room. Yuuri could hear a faint rustling sound as he moved from the door to the kitchen. “Get your lazy ass out here, I brought lunch.”

 

Yuuri cursed into the toilet and flushed. He didn’t want to eat today. The thought of being forced to made his eyes wet with frustration. He didn’t move except to drop to his knees, hopeful that if Yurio found him here, he would give up without a fuss. Really he should’ve known better, Yurio was much too willful to do anything except what he wished. Yuuri knew it because he was that way, too.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Yurio leaned against the doorframe when he found him, eyeing Yuuri with barely concealed disgust.

 

Yuuri swallowed thickly and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Sorry, Yurio, I—“ he stopped, coughing out the wet crackle from his throat—“maybe Viktor told you, I’m not feeling well today.”

 

“Yeah, he told me.” Yurio folded his arms over his chest. “He sent me to check on you. Told me to make sure you eat something. Not like I have my own shit to do today.”

 

Yuuri huffed out a half-hearted laugh but didn’t make to stand. “He’s just being overprotective.” He absently rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’m fine, you don’t have to stay.”

 

Yurio clicked his tongue and screwed his mouth up in disgust. Yuuri felt sure he was about to be reprimanded for being a disgusting pig—for not keeping himself healthy during competition season. Instead, Yurio slammed a hand against the doorframe and scowled. “I have soup. You will eat it. And then we will play Mario Kart and I will kick your ass six ways to Sunday.”

 

Yuuri’s heart hammered against his chest, his panicked thoughts banging against the walls of his already overcrowded brain. This wasn’t how the day was supposed to go. He needed to purge. He certainly didn’t need to eat more and contribute to his current problem.  

 

“Katsudon!” Yurio yelled from the kitchen. Yuuri flinched at the sound. He hadn’t even realized Yurio had left the bathroom.

 

Yuuri ran a hand through his hair and sucked in his bottom lip, gnawing at the fraying dry skin there. He would eat quickly and without a fuss, and then, hopefully, he could send Yurio on his way before Viktor was due to return. Soup would be easy to purge, it wasn’t like he would need much time. It was his only option at this point, anyway.

 

He heaved himself up and moved slowly towards the kitchen. His body felt heavier than usual, like his lungs were filled with concrete—his fingers and toes stinging with swarms of bees. He tried to draw in a breath—to fill his lungs—but the air was thick and immovable, like trying to breathe in an overheated sauna.  

 

Yuuri paused—his hand on the back of the couch. His heart was hammering out of his chest and twisting his stomach into knots. He reached for his glasses—his vision fogging over and burning along the edges into pure white static—but they were gone, maybe on the bathroom counter or the nightstand, he couldn’t recall.

 

“Katsudon!” A voice sounded somewhere, aqueous and distant. “Yuuri!” Yuuri didn’t understand the words, but the emotion behind them was clear—acidic and sharp and so so bright.

 

There was a hand on his back. A hissed Russian expletive he only knew from when Viktor stubbed his toe on the vacuum or forgot to set his alarm. “I’m calling Viktor.”  

 

Yuuri swallowed and swallowed again. He tried to lift his hand to wave off Yurio’s concern, but his limbs were alien to him and he couldn’t figure out how to move them. “I’m okay,” he slurred through a mouth full of cotton. Color started to creep back into his vision and the world slowly rocketed into its normal pace. “Don’t call, Viktor,” he said, more clearly this time. “I’m fine.”

 

“You’re clearly fucking _not_ ,” Yurio argued—hands shaking—but he drew the phone from his ear. “You’re eating,” Yurio told him, already stomping towards the kitchen to retrieve the soup, “and drinking a whole Gatorade or I’m calling him right now.”

 

“Okay,” Yuuri pulled his sweating grip from the couch and dropped a hand over his eyes. It wasn’t worth the argument.

 

+

 

It was almost two weeks later before Viktor finally found out. Yuuri had stopped being so careful. He would look back later and think it was very possible he had wanted to be caught. That he had finally just grown too tired of it all.

 

Yuuri was having a bad practice day. Pain had been thrumming behind his eyes since that morning, every deep breath dug shards of glass into his acid-burned throat, and it seemed he could hardly make a move without a clipped correction from his fiancé.

 

It was Viktor’s _job_ to critique him. Logically, Yuuri knew that. But today his emotions crouched too close to the surface and every ‘tighten up’ and ‘your arms are sloppy’ felt like a personal slight.

 

“Yuuri,” Viktor clapped from the boards, “stop hunching!”

 

Yuuri straightened up and shook his head at the ceiling, a hand pressed against his spine. “My back hurts.” He bit back through gritted teeth.

 

“Should we make an appointment with the physical therapist?”

 

Yuuri closed his eyes. He was so tired. “It’s probably just from leaning over the toilet,” he said, in a rare fit of reckless honesty.

 

“What?” Yuuri skated back to the edge of the rink and Viktor reached to take him by the elbow. “Are you sick?”

 

Yuuri always had cried easily, but surprisingly, he didn’t cry then. He was depleted, almost angry. His cheeks were swollen from purging, his head ached almost constantly and he couldn’t even properly execute a sit spin, something he had never struggled with.  

 

“Yes,” he said simply. Because it was the truth and he was exhausted from hiding it.

 

Yuuri bent to put on his skate guards and Viktor ran a gentle hand down his back. “Do you need to go the doctor?”

 

Yuuri straightened, wincing from the ache in his abdomen. His whole middle felt like it was on fire and he leaned into the burn. “Can we please talk about this at home?”

 

He could feel Viktor appraising him, but he refused to meet his eyes. He had been feeling indignant lately, had begun to blame Viktor for not noticing.

 

It was unfair. Yuuri knew that, but his psyche needed a break from the exhausting practice of blaming himself for everything, and Viktor was an easy target. He geared himself up for an argument, but Viktor just leaned forward and pressed soft lips against his temple.

 

“We can,” he affirmed, leaning down to untie Yuuri’s skates. “So let’s go.”

 

+

 

Yuuri hadn’t really been expecting anger. It had surprised him, but it wasn’t unwarranted. The thought of being comforted turned his stomach, anyway. He didn’t deserve to be coddled. He didn’t deserve any of the love or support he received—especially not when he was slowly and systematically destroying himself every day.

 

‘ _It’s okay_ ,” he wanted to tell Viktor. ‘ _I don’t really like me, either_.’

 

Viktor stared at him in shock, his forehead wrinkled in a way that didn’t suit him at all. Apparently, Yuuri’s sense of self had bled past its borders. He hadn’t meant to say the words, but they echoed past his ears and reflected back in the strength of Viktor’s sudden tight embrace.

 

“Don’t say that,” Viktor begged him. He breathed the words into Yuuri’s neck, his hands gripping permanent dimples into the back of his jacket. Yuuri vaguely registered that his shoulder was growing damp. He was shocked at how little he cared.

 

This was all too new. Yuuri didn’t know how to square any of it with reality.

 

He and Viktor had only just begun to discuss their relationship in a way that didn’t involve three layers of euphemism and skating metaphors so Yuuri didn’t really know how he was supposed to feel comfortable enough to talk about _this_.

 

Appointments were made. Tears were shed.

 

This was the beginning of healing.

 

+

 

Later that night, Yuuri panicked.

 

He had backed himself into a corner, because now Viktor _knew_.  

 

In the light of calm perspective, his struggles didn’t seem important enough to elicit such reaction. The concerned faces were alien, his problems were of his own making and he was used to hiding them away. It was his solace, and binging was the warm blanket that took the pain away, if only temporarily.

 

Yuuri had ruined everything because he was having a bad day.

 

He had never wanted to binge so badly in his life.

 

+

 

Weeks later, Yuuri stood over the stove, heart racing despite having done nothing in the way of training all day. He licked his bottom lip and dropped a pat of butter in the pan—glancing at the pair of pre-assembled grilled cheese sandwiches at his elbow.

 

Viktor moved through the room for a glass of water, squeezing Yuuri’s shoulder as he passed. “Having a craving?” He asked, wrapping his arms around Yuuri’s middle and tucking his nose into his nape.

 

“Mmhmm,” Yuuri hummed back. He hoped he didn’t sound as guilty as he felt. He had reprimanded Viktor so many times for acting too suspicious, for being nervous about letting Yuuri out of his sight, for not trusting him.

 

Recovery was a lifelong process. His therapist had to remind him of this fact almost every session. It was just so hard to let go of the guilt—even harder to stomach the shame, to lay himself bare. Secrecy had been difficult in its own ways, but at least his problems had been his burden alone.

 

But Viktor wanted to be there. He had told Yuuri so many times by now, often in tears, sometimes with shouting. Viktor had shared his own struggles, he had apologized, he had begged.

 

He had tried so hard to meet Yuuri where he stood. It was Yuuri’s turn to return the favor.

 

Yuuri stared into the pan—at the bubbling globules of iridescent fat—and weighed the words on his tongue. “Actually, no,” he admitted. The words were hardly intelligible through the ringing in his ears. “I think this—is a binge?” His voice cracked on the end, like his body, spurred by the embarrassment of his shameful actions, had plummeted him back into a prepubescent state.

 

Yuuri wanted to slither out of his own unwieldy skin, but Viktor hugged him close from behind, grounding him there.

 

“Thank you for telling me, solnyshko,” Viktor breathed against his skin, moving his chin to Yuuri’s shoulder. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

 

‘ _You’re here_ ,’ Yuuri thought. ‘ _Isn’t that enough_?’

 

“Can we go on a walk?” He asked, clenching his hand tight before reaching forward to flip off the burner.

 

“Of course,” Viktor quickly agreed, kissing the intersection of Yuuri’s neck and shoulder. “Do you want to bring Makkachin along?”

 

“Yeah,” Yuuri licked his numb lips. He dumped the pan in the sink, drizzling soap over everything to be cleaned later.

 

Viktor patted the small of his back and left the kitchen for Makkachin’s leash. “He’s been having awful gas lately, hopefully this will help him clear out his system.”

 

Yuuri placed one hand on the counter, watching Viktor with a small smile. “Don’t blame your farts on the dog.”

 

Viktor audibly gasped, looking up from where he was hooking Makkachin’s leash to his collar. “I would never.” He took the poodle’s head in his hands. “Daddy would never blame his farts on you, would he, boy?”

 

“Then I guess we have a ghost, since Makkachin wasn’t even in the room last night.” Yuuri giggled and let Viktor pull him into a hug. He allowed his smile to fade when his face was hidden. “Thank you,” he whispered against Viktor’s collarbone, barely audible.

 

Viktor just held him tighter.

 

+

 

“Maybe we should call a psychic?” Viktor asked when they were walking along the shoreline, hair flipping in the wind.

 

Yuuri dug his toes into the sand and looked up. “Huh?”

 

“For the ghost.”

 

+

 

As it turned out, a breaking point didn’t have to be a singular event.

 

Yuuri had put on weight. Not much, probably, he wasn’t supposed to weigh himself so he didn’t know for sure. It had never been about the weight, anyway. Not really. But now that the control had been taken out of his hands (even if by his own volition), his softening stomach bothered him.

 

Anyway, everything still probably would’ve been fine if Viktor hadn’t come home with donuts. He asked if it was okay, but it was one of those days when Yuuri was tired of the truth and how vulnerable it made him. He didn’t want to deny his fiancé just because he couldn’t manage to eat like a normal person.

 

Viktor left for practice first. Yuuri should’ve left with him. He knew what he was doing by staying behind, but it didn’t stop him. He didn’t even really regret it until he had plowed through six of the chocolate glazed, rainbow sprinkle terrors and found himself standing in the bathroom, quivering and miserable over the thought of having to rid himself of them.

 

He hated purging.

 

He hated all of this.

 

But he had to go skate and he couldn’t do that with a half pound of burbling sludge in his stomach.

 

It was a wasted effort because he never even made it on the ice. When he arrived at the rink, he took one look at his fiancé—his gentle expression full of love and affection—and burst out crying.

 

Viktor took him home immediately and pulled him close, combed his fingers endlessly through Yuuri’s hair and told him he was so very _sorry_.

 

Apologies weren’t what Yuuri needed, though. He didn’t need forgiveness, either. What he needed was harder to ask for and harder to achieve. He needed something to _change_. He needed something in his life to finally give.  

 

“I think I—I don’t want to do this, anymore,” Yuuri’s tongue was an impossible weight. He hardly knew how he had managed to move it enough to produce sounds, slurred as they may be.

 

Viktor patted his back, tentatively, and only with the tips of his fingers. “What don’t you want to do?” He asked, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.

 

“Compete,” Yuuri answered quickly, before he lost the courage to say it.

 

Viktor was silent and he looked distraught when Yuuri lifted his head to see.

 

“It’s okay,” he recovered quickly. “You don’t have to, solnyshko.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri added for good measure.

 

Viktor shook his head, taking Yuuri by the shoulders. “None of that,” he told him. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

Yuuri wished that were true.

 

+

 

“I was scared you wanted to end our relationship,” Viktor confided years later, after a couple’s therapy appointment.

 

Yuuri hardly had time to process the words before he was crying.

 

+

 

Things don’t magically get better, but not competing—helps.

 

A year goes by. Yuuri still has bad days, but they’re fewer and far between. He can get Chinese food with Viktor at the restaurant down the street without feeling guilty. They can impulse buy ice cream cones at the beach without it kickstarting a day long binge.

 

He can skate without feeling like the rink is going to collapse beneath him.

 

Sometimes Viktor tears up over breakfast when Yuuri reminisces about his past of not taking care of himself. Sometimes recovery seems too daunting of a road and Yuuri folds at the challenge of it.

 

They’re not perfect, but they know how to pick each other up again.

 

The weight is mutually shared. It’s easier to manage that way.

 

Yuuri turns to the middle of the bed and watches the early morning light reflect off his husband’s silver hair. He puts his hand next to Viktor’s and smiles at the matching gold on their fingers.

 

He is so endlessly grateful to be living with Viktor in St. Petersburg.

 

He is.

**Author's Note:**

> told myself I would never write a fanfiction about an eating disorder, but here we are. As someone who has suffered for more than a decade, it's impossible not to see signs of disordered eating in Yuuri. I'm sure it wasn't intended by the creators, but it's there, and I wanted to address it. 
> 
> I'm no therapist, but if anyone needs to talk or vent, feel free to come by my tumblr youremarvelous. 
> 
> Be well, loves.


End file.
